


Alone Together

by Earthiana



Series: Avengers ONESHOTS [2]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Could read as Bruce/Tony, Friendship, Hurt, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 14:01:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12060453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Earthiana/pseuds/Earthiana
Summary: Tony and Bruce are both having a bad night until they find each other.ORTony and Bruce find each other to lean on.





	Alone Together

The bottle in Tony’s hand quivers as sobs wrack his body. It's not something he’s proud of.

Stark men are strong. Stark men don't cry… stark men sit with a bottle of amber gold in the middle of the night, drinking their own brand of ambrosia. Stark men ruin themselves with a bottle, a pencil, and their own thoughts.

Tony considers his mother; Maria Stark had been happy to join the tradition.

_Today had been a disaster._

By that, Tony means it had been a completely average day. No drama, no hurt or failure. Tony is just fucked up.

An average day is unbearable for Tony. The pain in his chest won't go away. The uncomfortable pain of turning, twisting his torso, and leaning forward.

He doesn't have a sternum, a breastbone. Instead, his reactor lies in his hollow chest, jostled with every movement. Ribs float in his front, stitched together by a titanium framework. It's painful and uncomfortable.

Regardless how good his day is, it'll always work out horribly.

  


Bruce has had a great day. His favourite curry for dinner; lovely weather; his experiment went smoothly.

He's been left alone for most of the day. His good day has included one thing he hates: himself.

If only Bruce could have a day where he doesn't have to worry about catching his own reflection in any of the equipment, the green tinge creeping into his eyes. If only he could have a day without worrying about being angry.

Alas, Bruce’s mind is trapped in the cage of his body, the remnants of his arrogance.

  


Tony’s chest aches, not his forearm, as he digs in the knife.

“Sir.” Jarvis says because this is a _a bad idea_ and he has _so much to live for_.

“Mute.” Tony commands. His arm bleeds swiftly and freely, but not as much as he'd expected. Tony's too drunk to care.

Tonight is the night.

  


_“I got low. I didn't see an end so I put a bullet in my mouth and the other guy spit it out.”_

It was a long time ago, almost too long ago to remember.

The gun presses against Bruce's temple, digging into his skin. It feels wrong to threaten his own life. Hulk is rampant in his head, arguing in high blood pressure and tense muscles.

He's done this before. It didn't work well.

But he needs this. He needs to feel the cool muzzle of his father's old firearm against his face. Hope wells in his chest.

“Bruuucie.” Tony saunters in, dripping with dark red. A spider web pattern of blood drips along the olive skin of his hand, then spills over the floor. He's left a crimson trail from his own lab leading into Bruce’s.

He hesitated at the sight of his friend. It sobers him up, seeing a gun cocked and loaded against Bruce’s head, his finger trembling on his trigger.

Bruce whips around to see his friend standing in the doorway, wrist slit open vertically.

He drops the gun, shame flushing in his cheeks. It's not important. He's not important.

Tony is bleeding out. His annoying, erratic 'science bro’ is dying before him, always one step ahead. 

“Tony.” It's the only word Bruce can manage. His lips are tight, tense, just like the rest of him.

They take in the sight of each other.

  


“Care-Careful.” Tony slurs, his face against the table.

He's been drinking water while Bruce dips a needle into his arm, knitting together the wet walls of flesh. There's blood on Bruce’s fingers, staining his fingertips with a color he doesn't usually expect to see.

Tony’s head tilts up when he feels a drip of something on his arm.

It's not blood. Bruce is crying. Tears are cutting thin scars across his blank face, hitting Tony’s stained flesh in quiet _plops_.

“Bruce.” It's honest and raw. No _Brucie_ , no slurred voice, and no stupid grin.

His mouth is a taut line.

Bruce wipes the tear drops with his thumb, then grabs the bottle of antiseptic to his left. He washes the wound with it. Tony doesn't even wince.

His eyes are trained on Bruce's.

The other man notices, looking up to join Tony in their solemn exchange.

Tony pushes the bottle of whiskey towards Bruce, clinks it with his glass of water.

Bruce takes a small sip, his hand quaking. Nervous ripples of alcohol slip past his lips.

There's no words.

There's no words to describe this situation.

And Depression is sulking because they won't talk to it. About it. PTSD is throwing balled up memories at the back of their heads, trying to garner some attention. Anxiety is being cradled in their laps, holding their hands so it has someone to cling to. Their hands shudder in that white-knuckled grip.

Mental health is funny like that. When everything turns to shit, you make a few friends. A new kind of friend.

The kind of friend that runs with you up the hill. Depression leads, Anxiety chases, and PTSD ambles along at different paces. The kind of friend that slips the noose around your neck, tells you how well it fits. You can't afford it? Don't worry, you're just trying it on.

Suicide is falling to your knees, finding there's no real friends to stop the rope. Stop it from tightening around your neck, popping your head off of your shoulders.

But, now, they just have their respective drinks. The bar they're sharing, for something to lean on. The stains of red blood and clear tears. At least they have each other.

How do you describe a mood so bittersweet?

Shadows of old ghosts looming over their hollowed heads and glass eyes? Pain and shame and everything in-between? Or just a fucking mess.

So they share the silence. Alone together because the tower is finally silent enough. Finally empty enough.

The halls echo. The New York skyline is a series of smudged white lights on a black canvas.

They don't need words because they share the same pain, the same fractures.

As long as they're alone together, the thought in their minds that they both have someone to help them through the night.


End file.
